


Doveglion

by reginar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Embedded Images, Epistolary, Graduate School, Humor, Implied Jose Garcia Villa/E. E. Cummings, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Poetry, Poets AU, Slow Burn, Social Media, Writer AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-10-04 15:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10281842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginar/pseuds/reginar
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki would describe himself as a dime-a-dozen poet with a degree in comparative literature from Todai and only a couple of publications due to luck. By some miracle, he’d received an Asian Culture Council grant and a Bright scholarship to help him pursue MFA Creative Writing in America. He’d been so excited because he would be in the same country as his literary hero, V. Nikiforov, writer of countless, innovative poems.





	1. Doveglion

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is very loosely based on Jose Garcia Villa and e. e. cummings's connection as friends and poets. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about American universities.

Phichit found his roommate on their dormitory room's hardwood floor, almost tucked under the bed, while reading V. Nikiforov’s first poetry collection, _Terra Incognita _.__ When he closed the door behind him and took a step forward, Yuuri, still on his side, spoke up: “Phichit,” he said quietly, “did you know the titular poem was first published when he was fourteen? Fourteen, Phichit. I can’t even pass a poetry class and I’m twenty-two.”

 _Are you okay?_  was about to leave Phichit’s mouth when, clearly, the boy on the floor was not. “Is it your final requirement?”

“Mr. Seth rejected my suite again.”

Yuuri Katsuki would describe himself as a dime-a-dozen poet with a degree in comparative literature from Todai and only a couple of publications due to luck. By some miracle, he’d received an Asian Culture Council grant and a Bright scholarship to help him pursue MFA Creative Writing in America. He’d been so excited because he would be in the same country as his literary hero, V. Nikiforov, writer of countless, innovative poems, before he realized that America was a huge country. Not that it mattered to him, since right now, he had ten mediocre poems that couldn’t even pass a single reader, and he wouldn’t even be worth enough as a poet to ask V. Nikiforov to sign his books.

He frowned and turned to Phichit, who looked like a giant from the angle. They had been assigned as roommates last year on Yuuri’s first term in Michigan University, last fall of 2013. Phichit was a sophomore taking Asian Studies with his concentration on Southeast Asian literature in translation.

“Seth?” said Phichit, sitting down on his own bed. “I know him. He’s handling one of my classes. Trying to be low-key, but definitely racist. True Anglo-American professor at heart.”

“I know! He said my poems were ‘not universal enough’ and ‘too specific’.” Yuuri closed his book and tossed it to his bed. He pulled himself up and leaned back onto his mattress, sighing. “I have to pass his class. I’ve been revising all day.” Not entirely true. He revised for two hours and moped past lunch and well into the afternoon by snacking on nothing but chips and going through V. Nikiforov’s collections, starting from the most recent. “They get worse whenever I change anything.”

Phichit reached out to pat Yuuri’s head. “When’s the deadline of the final draft anyway?”

“In a month, but he wants the second draft next week.”

“I may have a solution.”

“What is it?”

“Okay, so you know Leo, right?”

“The music student?”

“Yeah. I had lunch with him, and we caught up.” Grinning, Phichit touched his nose with a forefinger. “It turns out his abuelito had been part of the judging committee for the upcoming literary contest by the department way, way back, and the great Mr. Seth had submitted every year that he was a student and never won once.”

“I don’t see how this will help.”

“Listen for a bit. Apparently, the call for submissions will be posted next week, online and on the bulletin, and results will come out in, say, two weeks. Submit your suite without the ‘universal’ bullshit, and if you win, he can’t say your poems are bad. And to rub it in, you'd win something he wanted but never got.”

Yuuri slumped down on the floor again and curled into himself. “No. I won’t win. I’m not good enough.”

Phichit let out a loud, drawn out groan. “We’ve talked about this. Do you want me to whip out the CV I helped you with?”

Turning his back onto Phichit, he said, “No.”

“Submit or I’ll submit your poems for you.”

Yuuri almost smiled, amused. “I’m not satisfied with them. Please, no. I’ll submit when they're better but don’t tell anyone.”

“You have a week! I’m rooting for you.” 

* * *

 

* * *

By mid-April, word got out that the results of the contest would be posted on the bulletin board outside the faculty room, but winners would be emailed tonight. Yuuri willed himself not to check his inbox every five minutes, when it was only seven. He swallowed down the anticipation with a steaming mug of green tea and ignored the pang of disappointment the longer his phone did not vibrate with notification. He was slouching in front of his laptop, hurriedly revising his suite to cater to his professor’s demands, changing _prefecture_ to _state, okaa-san_  to _mother_ , much to his reluctance.

He should’ve taken nodding sleepily to his monitor as a sign to go to bed, because when he woke up, he had to unstick his face from his desk, and his neck, back, and legs were a combination of strain and numbness. After stretching up his arms and craning his neck, he noticed the tall coffee cup and sandwich by his notebooks.

“Good morning,” said Phichit, who was reading on his bed. “Those are for you.”

Yuuri blinked. “What time is it?”

“Eleven. I just got back from my English Lit.”

“Are the results out?” asked Yuuri, unwrapping the sandwich. He held it with one hand and took a bite. With his other, he unlocked his phone.

Phichit snapped his book shut and turned to him, a look of determination on his face. “Two from our departments won first and second, and some guy got third - ”

Cutting him off, Yuuri gasped. “I got an email from the department!”

“ _What_?”

“Read it, please.”

With a trembling hand, Yuuri shoved the phone at Phichit, who clicked on the mail. Sure enough, there was a message congratulating Yuuri Katsuki for winning third place.

“Third place?” Phichi stated, but his tone conveyed confusion. Even more so when Yuuri frowned at his pronouncement. “You nabbed third,” he repeated. “But I could’ve sworn I saw a different name… Dove-something.”

“Doveglion. Um, about that. I requested that they don’t post my real name if I were to win, so I gave them a pseudonym.”

Phichit grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. “What? Yuuri, why? This entails publication in the campus journal, too! They're gonna print your suite under Doveglion!”

Yuuri flushed, and he averted his eyes. “It's fine," he said, voice small. "I’m just not confident enough. And I didn’t want people to know I was not good enough for first, and I was right.”

“That’s it. I’m printing out your achievements - I DM’d Mari, you know, I know you founded a writing collective - "

"It was an accident! They kept asking for comments, and it just became a thing."

"Anyway, I’m posting it all on our door. You are not to vandalize or take it down, otherwise I’ll tweet them individually.”

Accepting defeat, Yuuri sighed in exasperation and pulled away from his friend. He munched on his sandwich. “Thanks for the food,” he muttered, hiding a smile.

Phichit grinned. “I meant it as consolation, but I guess it’s congratulations now.” He reclined on his bed, putting his hands behind his head. 

“Thanks, Phichit.”

 


	2. Forms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what you need? Another read-through of Nikiforov’s _The Proxy Agape_.” Phichit giggled. “Pfft. That title always gets me. We both know there is nothing _agape_ in that collection.”
> 
> “Ah, but that’s why it’s so brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank [lookatthesetreasures](http://lookatthesetreasures.tumblr.com/) for some ideas.

* * *

Lilia Baranovskaya Literary Contest awarding ceremony [inbox]

 

 ** **Celestino Cialdini****  <ccialdini@michu.edu> April 19  
to me 

Dear Mr. Doveglion,

You are cordially invited to attend the Department of Literature and English Studies’ _Lilia Baranovskaya Literary Contest_ awarding ceremony to be held on Friday, May 2, 2014, 5:00PM at Batlo Hall, University Hotel. The department, judging committee, some guests, and Madame Baranovskaya herself will be in attendance. Cocktails will be served. You may bring one (1) guest. The attire is semi-formal.

Please respond before April 25, 2014 to confirm your attendance. In the event that you are not able to come, you may pick up your cash prize and certificate at the department by presenting your I.D. from May 5, 2014 until before the term ends.

We hope to see you.

Sincerely,

Celestino Cialdini, PhD  
Head of Department

 

 ** **Celestino Cialdini****  <ccialdini@michu.edu> April 19  
to me

Ciao ciao yuuri please tell phichit to pick up his papers theyre piling up.  
Celestino 

Sent from my IPad

[...] 

* * *

It was four in the morning. Yuuri tried to blink sleep from his eyes. Not that he had sleep to begin with. He made to grab his glasses nearby, in the process almost knocking down the empty Red Bull bottle on his desk. Yawning, rolled his shoulder and then his spine, trying to undo the knots in his muscles that had formed in the past hours that he’d spent slouching.

If he were back in Japan, and his childhood mentor had the opportunity to see his terrible posture, he’d have been scolded. Minako-sensei was a family friend, his mother’s senior from their high school years, and had background in performance arts, specifically theater and ballet. She had taken Yuuri under her wing as a child, introducing him to literature from around the world, hoping to hone him into an actor and dancer, but he fell in love with writing, specifically poetry, as he grew up.

He made a mental note to call back home when he was free - whenever that would be.

Yuuri squinted at the blinding screen of his laptop. Despite the darkness in his room, he didn’t bother to dim the screen brightness down. He scrolled up and then back down to reread the messages. He would’ve been amused at the the second email if he had the energy to spare, but he’d spent everything on writing his paper due that afternoon. Leaning back on his chair, he thrummed his digits on the surface of his desk, gentle enough to not wake his snoring roommate. He was not aware there would be any awarding ceremony. Granted, he received all the details directly from Phichit, not bothering to verify anything, as he avoided the Department, specifically his terrible professor, on days there were no class, if he could help it. Besides, he was far more concerned with passing his poetry class (and, secretly, pettiness).

Turning the idea in his head, he considered: he was mostly a lurker online, opting to like posts while his own accounts remained wasted and barren aside from occasional tags, and he’d seen some reactions recently. Phichit told him they were only jealous, and those posters admitted as much, but Yuuri did not like the idea of revealing himself. The whole faculty probably knew who he was though, as evidenced by Celistino’s email and _ykatsuki@michu.edu._

He had to admit, the idea of meeting Lilia Baranovskaya was especially tempting - she was legendary. Twenty years ago, she had founded _Sozdayte_ , the university’s creative writing center, one of the best literary institutes in America. She had her own theater company, publishing house with her husband, and multiple publications on literary criticism, theater, fiction, and poetry in English and Russian under her belt. To say she had the range was an understatement. Minako-sensei would never forgive him if he let this opportunity pass.

Yuuri chewed on his lower lip. He only won third place though. It was not good enough.  

Maybe he’d ask Phichit later. 

* * *

“Send them tonight, Katsuki.”

When the class had ended that Monday afternoon, the notoriously racist professor - notorious, at least, within the four walls of Phichit and Yuuri’s dormitory room - Mr. Seth called for Yuuri to stay behind and informed him that his winning poems couldn’t satisfy the class requirements anymore, and that he were to submit five new poems - _not ten_ , the professor emphasized, reasoning that it was a congratulatory kindness on his part.

“We can’t very well workshop and revise the suite as they are set for publication already,” Mr. Seth continued, shrugging. “We won’t be moving your workshop schedule, because that’s really unfair to your classmates.”

Yuuri was tight-lipped as he nodded

“I want you to upload the new poems in the class drive as soon as possible. Crispino will be the reactor, so alert him once you’ve done it. You can do that, can’t you?”

Yuuri nodded again. Once outside the classroom, he sighed heavily and shook his head. Tugging the strap of his backpack, more for the act of doing something swift and forceful, he bound out of the building and for the campus cafe, where he’d be meeting Phichit. Unaware that he was wearing a severe scowl, he wondered for a while why so many people stepped out of his path as though they were in a hurry. One hurried aside and almost got hit by a jogger in the joggers & bike lane.

The place was an outdoor cafe beside the museum that inhabited the university library basement. Phichit waved at Yuuri from one of the round tables and removed his bag from the seat across him.

“Looks like Seth up _seth_  you,” said Phichit, keeping a nonchalant expression, and noisily sucked his ice coffee empty.

As he sat, Yuuri snorted. “He wants me to send him five new poems tonight.”

“No way.” Phichit gaped as he slammed his plastic container on the table. The ice jostled with a sound. “No way,” he repeated. “He’s even worse…”

“I actually have a few poems here, so it’s no big deal.” Yuuri pulled a journal from his bag and flipped over the pages. “Here’s ‘The Emperor’s Sonnet’, which I wrote about a Japanese emperor during the first shogunate. And then, my ‘Ars Poetica’. Then some others.” Yuuri smiled to himself “I only need to type them out later, actually. I’m just annoyed that he’s so… contemptuous.”

“You know what you need? Another read-through of Nikiforov’s _The Proxy Agape_.” Phichit giggled. “Pfft. That title always gets me. We both know there is nothing _agape_ in that collection.”

“Ah, but that’s why it’s so brilliant.”

Readers would definitely expect a sensual collection from V. Nikiforov, so when the title had been announced last year, everyone was surprised. With hardly any examination, it would seem as though the poems were refreshingly wholesome, and the initial reviews that had come out were that of thinly-veiled confusion. But long time readers like Yuuri and, to a lesser extent, Phichit had picked up on the subtle crafting of the words to come to the conclusion that the collection was instead on Eros, constructed in such a way to be the proxy agape - loving selfishly by loving sensually. Yuuri almost cried at his Eureka moment. There was always a surprise in V. Nikiforov’s works, no matter how many times they were reread and analyzed.

Talking about V. Nikiforov lifted up Yuuri’s spirits most effectively, and he was grateful Phichit knew that.

“Let’s have a dramatic reading of _The Proxy Agape_ tonight.” Yuuri grinned as he leaned closer to whisper: “I’ll sneak in the drinks.” In a normal tone, he said, “Get me coffee. You still owe me for our lunch yesterday."

“Sure.” Phichit’s face suddenly lit up, and he straightened his back, looking excited. “Hey, I almost forgot. I was talking to Leo this morning - ”

“You talk to him an awful lot.”

“No, no, there’s nothing,” said Phichit with a laugh to answer Yuuri’s unspoken question. “It’s just that he lives in a house just on Mango Street, you know. You should definitely meet him, if you’re ever planning on finally doing that musical Shakespeare retelling. He composes.”

“I was drunk when I conceived that, so I’ll pass. What were you going to say?”

“I’m so jealous of him. He gets first-hand literary gossip, and he’s not even interested.” Phichit pouted before smirking. “Apparently, Lilia Baranovskaya and her husband Yakov Feltsman are going through a divorce.”

“Oh no,” Yuuri whispered. Feltsman was the owner of the publishing house that put out Nikiforov’s poetry. “But Baranovskaya was V. Nikiforov’s mentor.”

Waving a hand, Phichit continued: “Actually, Leo’s not sure, since his abuelito tends to be paranoid. What he’s sure of though is that Baranovskaya’s bringing in some ‘friends’ to the awarding ceremony, if you haven’t decided about attending yet.” There was something almost sinister with the way Phichit steepled his fingers in front of him, a self-satisfied expression forming on his face.

There was beating in Yuuri’s chest. He swore softly, tenderly, as he stared at his best friend. “You really want to be my plus-one, don’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“I-I’ll think about it.”

* * *

If the dormitory staff and neighboring rooms heard the racket in 312, they’d probably attributed it to the inherent oddness of liberal arts majors, because no one bothered to tell them off or to keep the noise down. After downing half a bottle of straight vodka, Yuuri proceeded to express the burning in his esophagus by yelling lines from various V. Nikiforov collections from memory and pounding on the mattress in accordance to their sonic quality.

By the time it was half-past eleven, Phichit had the lucidity to remind Yuuri of his class assignment, and _shit_ , Yuuri thought as his fingers hastened onto his keyboard. It was difficult to to type and keep his head up and his eyes open all at the same time. Why was it so difficult? Why was his head continuously falling? It was telling him to dance. Minako-sensei wanted him to keep dancing, in case he went back to performing. Should he dance after uploading his poetry? The cursor was winking at him. Yuuri tried to wink back, but blinked instead. Tilting his head, he examined the file. When he was satisfied, he uploaded it to the class drive. He smiled triumphantly and jumped onto Phichit for a hug.

“Thank you for the reminded - reminds - reminder. Reminder,” he slurred as they fell back onto the bed. He raised a finger. “Aha! To thank you I will email Celestino now. I’ll say yes.” He wobbled up and typed onto his laptop again.

* * *

RE: Lilia Baranovskaya Literary Contest awarding ceremony

 

 ** **Yuuri Katsuki****  <ykatsuki@michu.edu> April 21  
to ****Celestino****  

はい wit phichit

baest,  
yorickatsuki

* * *

The muffled sound and vibration of his phone woke Yuuri up. He groaned. Drinking on a Monday night, why did he think that was a good idea? He patted around for his glasses, but to no avail. His head was throbbing; he wasn’t sure if he could handle a phone conversation, but it was persistently calling his attention, as though it wouldn’t stop until he picked up. As he squinted, his phone’s screen told him it was far too early and far too rude for any call. He swiped to answer anyway.

“ _What_ the hell is this?”

Yuuri winced at the sound of Michele Crispino’s voice. Beside him, Phichit was slumbering peacefully, unperturbed by any irritable Italians. Yuuri kneaded his temple to ease the pain. It was barely six in the morning, and he wanted to puke.

“What do you mean?” His voice sounded hoarse, scratchy.

“Your goddamn suite, Katsuki.”

“It’s part of the project,” said Yuuri, his voice stubborn, as he settled back on the bed. He nuzzled a pillow. “Everything is part of the project.”

He knew a sonnet about a Japanese emperor would raise some eyebrows, his professor far too attached to the Shakespearean sonnet form and Crispino to the Petrarchan one. From the other line, he heard something between a sigh and a growl, and it hurt his ears.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s too early. Can we discuss this at the workshop later?”

Crispino made the sound again, followed by a grunt that vaguely sounded like an agreement.

With a tap, Yuuri went back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many literary references can I pack in one chapter? Honestly, I stopped counting. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. the emperor’s new sonnet and other poems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. homme fatale  
> 2\. Ars Poetica  
> 3\. man song  
> 4\. the emperor's new sonnet  
> 5\. On meeting Nike O Or

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said in the comments I'm posting in 2 weeks or so. But. Here ya go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [lookatthesetreasures](http://lookatthesetreasures.tumblr.com/) for helping me arrange the suite. Also, I edited chapter 1's resume into images as well, so you might want to check that out. 
> 
> "The Emperor’s New Sonnet" is a legit poem by Villa. Same for "Ars Poetica" except the real title is "The Bashful One". "Man Song" is the title of another poem of his. Comma poetry is also his thing.


	4. Workshop Sessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was palpable uneasiness in the classroom when Yuuri stepped in with the way heads pored over laptops and sheets of paper. The tension was disrupted only when Michele’s twin, Sara, looked up and cried, “Hi, Yuuri!” with an excited wave. Her brother, on the other hand, was not as enthusiastic. He appeared to be glowering at Yuuri. Not trusting himself to speak, Yuuri only nodded in response and took the empty seat beside Christophe Giacometti, who waggled his eyebrows in greeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently some images in the last chapter had broken links. I fixed them now! :)

There was palpable uneasiness in the classroom when Yuuri stepped in with the way heads pored over laptops and sheets of paper. The tension was disrupted only when Michele’s twin, Sara, looked up and cried, “Hi, Yuuri!” with an excited wave. Her brother, on the other hand, was not as enthusiastic. He appeared to be glowering at Yuuri. Not trusting himself to speak, Yuuri only nodded in response and took the empty seat beside Christophe Giacometti, who waggled his eyebrows in greeting. Yuuri wouldn’t call him a friend, per se, but Chris had been an exchange student for one semester in Todai three years ago, and they had taken up a creative writing elective together. At that time, the Chris had appeared more child-like. Now, he completely embodied the eroticism only his poetry seemed capable of back then. Yuuri was glad that he knew someone, at least.

As he glanced around, Yuuri mentally cursed the glaring light from the florescent lamps. His head was heavy and throbbing. He also was not sure if the upset in his stomach was due to too much alcohol consumption the previous night or plain nervousness. If the latter, well, writing workshops always did that to him, but he’d been hoping he’d get used to it by now. After all, he was not new to criticism, having had a fair share of workshop experience, both in formal and informal settings. He blinked repeatedly to help his eyes.

Yuuri pulled out his copy of Leroy’s suite, which he’d already marked and commented on last week, as he was assigned to be the reactor. Jean-Jacques Leroy was scheduled for the first workshop session, but it would seem he was running late. Yuuri swore he knew Leroy, or at least heard about him before the semester began, and felt bad that he couldn’t remember. At the very least, he recalled Leroy to be a marketing major, taking the poetry class to enrich a hobby, or so he assumed.

The classroom for CW212 was more of a conference room with plain, white walls and beige shelves and drawers on one side. There was a long, dark table that took up half the space, where the students gathered for discussions. On lecture days, the professor would sit in the desk in front of the whiteboard. So far, Yuuri, Chris, the Crispino twins, Emil Nikola, and a couple more people whose name escaped Yuuri - he made a note to look them up in the class directory later - were present. They only had to wait a few more minutes, though, when the door was pushed open and their professor entered, being chatted by Leroy amicably. Soon, they settled.

Eyes closed, Yuuri slowly breathed in and out to focus and center himself, trying to ignore the pains in his being and the fact that he’d drunkenly confirmed last night that he would attend the awarding ceremony. He sighed to himself.

“All right, let’s start with Leroy’s _Theme of King JJ_ ,” said Mr. Seth, sitting in between Michele and Leroy. “Here’s how we’re going to do the workshop: We will start with the reactor’s initial comments for the whole suite, positive and negative, then we go with the individual poems. Leroy, you’re not allowed to speak - you’re dead - and Katsuki, begin.”

“Okay, so - ” Yuuri swallowed and cleared his throat. He trained his eyes on the vividly red scribbles on his sheets. “As a whole, I think there is a lot going on in the suite that it is somewhat possible to salvage something from it.” At the corner of his eye, he saw heads turn to him, for some reason, and Chris almost seemed to smile, but Yuuri didn’t mind them. “However, it needs a lot of work, since it’s quite a torment to read. Some poems make me wonder why they were written in the first place, since the content is trite - ”

“It’s JJ style,” Leroy interrupted, white teeth gleaming in his wide grin.

Yuuri glanced up, eyebrows raised. “You call this style?” Beside him, Chris let out a low whistle. “How so?” He budged slightly to pull out a pen from his jean pocket so he could jot down notes.

Mr. Seth held up a hand. “Stop that, Katsuki. Leroy, don’t talk.”

Frowning, Yuuri nodded, though he didn’t know what he was agreeing to stop doing. “Anyway, aside from the trite content, I find the form underutilized and wasted. There is hardly any linguistic play, and the line cuts contribute nothing aside to make the poems _look_ like poems. I can see the the effort to rhyme, too, like in ‘The King JJ’, but in terms of sonic quality, there’s not much to speak of.”

Again, Leroy spoke: “It’s to the beat of the theme of King JJ.” Again, he grinned.

“Sorry, aren’t you dead?”

So Yuuri continued to list his initial commentaries. For the next hour, they moved through each poem, with mostly Yuuri speaking and some classmates supporting and adding. He couldn’t help but notice Michele casting him dour looks, though.

“To be fair,” said Yuuri in the end, handing his written comments across the table to Leroy, who looked constipated for some reason, and Yuuri almost worried for him, but if he needed the bathroom, surely he’d ask for a break? “The suite was a success for being ordinary, which I think is the project. I noted here that you can explore the underlying feeling of mediocrity that pops up in the poems. It will give the suite a much needed nuance and sincerity with the poetic voice.” Yuuri offered a smile, but Leroy didn’t take comfort with that.

“Thank you for the comment,” said Leroy stiffly. “The suite is actually a song for my band.”

In a flat voice, Yuuri said, “What?” He sighed, tiredly rubbing his temple. “I’m - I’m not sure what to say, actually.” He pursed his lips. He could feel annoyance start to boil inside him, but he tried to quell it down.

Beside him, Chris placed his chin on one hand. “This is a poetry class,” he said slowly.

Nodding, Yuuri added, “My friend knows someone from the music conservatory. He may be able to help.”

“This is not the place for it,” agreed Chris.

Michele suddenly stood up, his chair banging against the wall beside him. His sister looked up in surprise. He looked enraged. “I’m going out to smoke.” With that he stomped on the way to the door.

“Mickey, you don’t even smoke!” Sara called out to him, but he’d already slammed the door closed.

Mr. Seth let out a noise of frustration. “Leroy, your workshop is over. Everyone, take a ten-minute break.”

The class shuffled out of the room, whether to smoke, go to the bathroom, or find snacks. Mr. Seth definitely said he needed a smoke. The only students left were Yuuri and Chris.

* * *

* * *

* * *

* * *

Chris smiled at him. “Love your suite, by the way. I see you’ve changed your style.”

“Um - thanks.” Yuuri took out his laptop and turned it on. As he waited, he put his journal on the table, readying it for taking down comments. He knew his suite was not in top form. “The Emperor’s Sonnet” would be more effective if the last couplet had more round-shaped vowels. “Ars Poetica” was a little too personal. And… what were his other poems? He remembered typing them down last night, but the fact that he didn’t remember what the three other ones he’d chosen was downright alarming. A sense of dread began to form in his chest as he brought up his document folder onscreen and clicked _katsuki_cw212_poems.docx_ , a file supposedly containing his suite but was nothing but practically empty pages.

He let out a mortified squeak.

“You all right, Yuuri?” asked Chris, tilting his head.

“Y-yes.”

No, Yuuri was not all right. He hastily flicked open his journal for comparison, and the messy and sprawling handwritten poems jumped out at him from the pages, words in black ink glaring at him for not making use of them.

Everything made sense now.

He craned his neck slowly to look at Chris, who, moments ago, claimed to have loved his suite. When Chris raised a questioning eyebrow, Yuuri shook his head and forced a smile. He cursed himself repeatedly, but the embarrassment was starting to get to him, and he was sure his face had turned red.

When his professor and classmates had come back, Yuuri’s wringing hands were visibly shaking. Concerned, Sara turned up the air condition temperature. She gave him a thumbs-up as she took her place beside Michele.

“Katsuki?” said Mr. Seth, not taking notice of Yuuri’s inner turmoil. “You’re dead.”

 _I know_.

“You may start, Crispino.”

If Crispino was livid, Yuuri honestly didn’t blame him. His brow knitted as he poised his pen to write on a blank page. His other hand tugged at his sweater nervously. To think he had the gall to be thorough with Leroy’s workshop when his own submission was literally empty.

Yuuri swallowed as he waited. When none came, he looked up to see Sara elbowing his brother.

“I’m not actually sure now, if I understand,” he said finally in a voice that sounded more confused than angry, different from the call this morning. “I asked the poet beforehand, and he said everything is part of a project. This collection feels honestly a joke.”

Chris leaned forward. “How so?”

Michele looked like he was about to blow up, but his sister placed a hand on his arm and he smiled. “The last poem, ‘On meeting Nike…’, is a just bunch of typos.”

“I actually liked ‘homme fatale’,” said Sara, grinning at Yuuri.

“Me too,” Chris agreed. “If I may explain my reading of the suite?”

Mr. Seth rolled his eyes. “Go ahead,” he said dismissively.

Chris smiled sweetly. “Since it _is_ a suite, I read the last poem in relation to ‘man song’: Nike, the Greek god of victory - then the O, it could be the on-yomi of the kanji for ‘king’, which is a long o - also reminiscent of the Japanese enso, the minimalism of which is certainly evoked by the dynamic yet simple exclamation point. I will get to the significance of ‘Or’ later.”

Yuuri’s eyed widened. Was Chris serious? Nonetheless, he wrote down what was said. The current state of his suite may be a product of a drunken accident, but Chris always had something substantive to say.

“I initially questioned, on my first reading, the combination of Greek mythology and Japanese,” Chris continued, and the whole class was listening with rapt attention. Even Mr. Seth appeared interested. “But after a closer examination, ‘homme fatale’, as the opening poem, sets the - um, convention? - with the katsudon and French. Followed by ‘Ars Poetica’, which is Latin, the project is further strengthened and explored.

“Then, the middle poem ‘man song’ provides a clearer dramatic situation. It expands the sense of loss experienced by the persona in ‘homme fatale’ - and I believe the fatale refers to the victor, for which the persona expresses distinctive emotions of grief and admiration in ‘man song’. The victor of a battle or war or whatever conflict between the persona and the fatale, it is clear there is desire, but tinged with sadness.”

There was a background music of cursing in Yuuri’s head. He sneaked a brief glance to Michele, whose eyes narrowed disbelievingly.

“In spite of losing the conflict, the persona seeks help from the enemy, the victor, the homme fatale. The dynamic presented is very intriguing, and it takes a hopeful turn in ‘the emperor’s new sonnet’ - the volta of the suite, if you will. The sonnet now clearly delineates that there is a lover and a beloved. Whatever happens in the sonnet, the expression of adoration, the specifics of any kind, are hidden, private, but they are answered in the last poem.

“As I previously stated, the O is about the king, matching the god of victory reference, as well as the emperor. The ‘Or’ in the title shows hesitation, but the content - an italicized exclamation point - answers the question formed in the sonnet: the exclamation point gives giddy, excited, and hopeful yes.

“There’s the frequent contrasting atmosphere of European and Asian in the suite, and I feel that the dissonance emphasizes the vivid difference of the persona and the fatale.”

Michele raised a hand. “How about the ‘Ars Poetica’ poem? If it’s there just to preface the use of different references…”

“Ah, I almost forgot. ‘Ars Poetica’ is on the poetics of the poet, but also, in the context of the suite, an exploration of the personality of the persona. The comma implies shyness, meekness, which makes the active role the persona takes in later poems very significant. Therefore, as a whole, the suite’s project has been successful, in my opinion. It’s brilliant, quite honestly. But my favorite is ‘man song’ definitely. The purposeful enjambment of ‘victor’s’ and ‘face victor’, turning ‘face’ into both noun and verb - reading it as ‘to face the victor’ - I’m still reeling from the genius of it all. I think the five poems are reminiscent of V. Nikiforov’s experimental poetry in _The Madness_.”

Looking up to the ceiling, Yuuri wondered if he was still running on a bottle and a half of vodka. He was speechless, and so was the class. To his side, Chris was beaming.

“Other comments?” asked their professor. When no one spoke, he said slowly, “I must admit that putting it that way, I can see the merits of the suite, much better than Katsuki’s first submission. The European elements give this nuance."

At that sentence, Yuuri pursed his lips. He said nothing. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fic & writing blog is at [reginarfic](https://reginarfic.tumblr.com/). Talk to me, read up on updates on my fics, or send me prompts! >:)

**Author's Note:**

> Doveglion is Jose Garcia Villa's pseudonym. Not necessary, but if you're interested, more about Villa and cummings can be read here: [Cowen, John Edwin. “Doveglion - the E. E. Cummings and Jose Garcia Villa Connection.” _Spring: The Journal of E. E. Cummings Society_ , vol. 10, 2001, pp. 102-109.](http://faculty.gvsu.edu/websterm/cummings/Cowen10.pdf)
> 
> Also, check out my post-season 1 Viktuuri fic, [_Without fear, without metaphor_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9824237/). It's a more serious work.
> 
> Comments and kudos are highly appreciated!


End file.
